I Belong to You
by Justine Samulet Delarge
Summary: Sam belongs to Dean. But when Dean becomes a teenager, he has a moment where he resents being stuck taking care of his pain-in-the-ass little brother. And he says something he regrets.


John roused himself with a snore, knocking over the empty bottle of Jack. Baby Sammy was crying in his crib. Dean was already walking into the kitchen in his sock feet to microwave a bottle.

"Thanks, Dean." John waved his hand in the air.

Dean pulled Sam out of the crib, his sobs subsiding almost immediately, and settled him down on the couch with him. "Here you go, little man." Sammy clutched the bottle with both hands, staring at Dean with huge brown eyes as he drank.

Sammy, bored with cruising the furniture, pushed off from the coffee table and staggered his first steps. Towards Dean. Dean's freckled face lit up at the sight. "Dad. Dad! Didja see! Sammy's walking!"

John looked up from the heavy tome of research in which he'd been buried all afternoon. "That's awesome, Dean. Really awesome." And he went back to it.

Dean ruffled Sammy's hair. "Look at you. All walking now. That's my Sammy."

Sammy hiccupped and pulled on Dean's shirt. "Up."

The seventh anniversary of Mary's death. November 2nd. John observed it in the manner to which he had become accustomed: a bottle of whiskey and progressively more uncontrolled sobbing.

Sam stood in the hallway. "But Dad's sad, Dee."

Dean held Sam back by the shoulders. "Better not go in there, Sammy. Just let him be sad alone."

Sammy looked at Dean like he'd just suggested kicking a puppy. "You never let me be alone when I'm sad. You always hug me. That's what your asposed to do." And Sammy, stubborn from the day he was born, pulled free from Dean and went to his father.

John looked up, eyes red and swollen, and pulled Sammy into his lap. "…such a good boy. Sam."

Dean stood watch, tense, fingers twitching in his pockets.

"I love you, Daddy. Don't be sad." Sammy patted John's stubble-covered face.

John leaned forward and seized the bottle of Jack. "Drink to your mommy, Sam. She's in heaven. And we miss her." He held it out to Sammy—and Dean's hand snatched it away.

"Dad."

John swayed, and stared his eldest boy down. "Son."

"Can't give a seven year old kid alcohol."

John blinked, and smacked his lips. "Christ. You're right." He started to cry, and pulled Dean down next to him. "Dean. I can't… I can't do it. Can't take care of you boys." His tears spread into sobs. "I'm terrible. Know it. I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean screwed the cap on the bottle and shoved it under the couch. "It's ok, Dad."

Sammy hugged his father, tears welling in his own eyes. "Don't cry, Daddy."

John turned to Dean. "I can't. You're strong now, son. A good soldier. I need you to take care of Sammy. Do what I can't. I love you both. Gonna try to do better. But… but I give Sammy to you. Ok?"

Dean put his hand on his little brother's shoulder. "You already did."

John repeated. "I give Sammy to you."

Sammy stared at John, then Dean, confused. John kissed his forehead. "Don't worry." His voice was thick, slurred. "I'm still your daddy. I'm always your daddy. Love you. And I'm not going anywhere. But Dean can watch over you. Lot better than I can. So you belong to him now. Ok?"

Sammy cocked his head. "I'm Dean's?" John nodded. Dean just rubbed his eyes. Sam turned his huge brown eyes to Dean, and put his hand in his. "I'm yours."

Dean had turned 17 a few weeks before, and had been spending a lot of time with a girl that John kept referring to as the village bicycle, which Sammy didn't understand, but it seemed to piss Dean off.

Sammy didn't like Dean spending time with her. He ignored Sam completely, and got mad whenever John left them alone for days. "Stuck with my little brother—again," he would complain on the phone with Paula. "Can't leave him alone." And then Dean would stomp around the house, sullen and tense, and Sammy would huddle on the couch, miserable and confused. And then try to cheer Dean up.

"Wanna watch a movie?"

"No. I don't wanna watch a movie. What I wanna do is go out. And I can't. Because I've got to babysit your ass." Dean jittered his thigh, slumped on the couch.

"You can go. I'm not a baby."

"Yeah you are a baby."

"I'm almost 13!"

"Almost 13! Almost 13!" Dean mocked in a sing-song. The tone of his voice brought stinging tears to Sam's eyes.

He said nothing for a long moment, then spoke. "Why don't you like being around me anymore?"

That pulled Dean up short. He stammered, "I-I like being around you fine, Sammy. Don't be a baby."

That expression, hammered home yet again, set Sam off. "I'm not a baby! I just, we always did stuff. All the time. You and me. Just you and me." Sam became increasingly frustrated, unable to articulate or even identify what he was feeling, why the thought of Dean wanting desperately to leave Sam so he could go be with Bicycle Paula ripped him up inside so bad. "I mean… it's just… damn it, Dean, I belong to you!"

Dean flung himself up off the couch, cords on his neck standing out. "Maybe I don't want you anymore!"

The words hung in the air like fog, poisonous and impossible to dissipate with just a wave of the hand.

Sammy stood stock-still, sucking in air through his nose in little pants.

Dean dragged the back of his hand over his mouth. "Sammy…"

Sam said nothing. Just stood there, breathing in sharp little breaths.

Dean reached out to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Come on, Sammy…"

Sam smacked Dean's hand away, a move that shocked Dean. Sam had never done anything like that.

"Hey, hey, hey … it's ok. I didn't mean it." Dean took a step toward Sam.

Sam took a step back.

"Here's the thing, Dean." Sam's voice was surprisingly strong. "You did."

Dean's mouth fell open, and no sound came out.

"So just go. Go see that girl and do whatever."

Dean raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not gonna leave you alone in the house, Sammy."

Sam spoke with such calm that it frightened Dean. "I don't need you. And I don't need Dad. Not anymore. You don't take care of me." He paused, thinking. Choosing his words. "You hurtme."

Sam walked past his brother and up the stairs. Dean, stunned and more than a little scared, called to him, said the only thing he could think of in that moment to say. "Sammy."

His brother stopped at the head of the stairs, and looked at Dean with eyes stripped of any emotion other than something cold and deep and horribly wounded.

"Don't call me Sammy anymore."

Dean did leave the house, did go see the girl, but any illicit desires he had harbored before his fight with Sam turned to ash in his mouth. He drove her home after just fifteen minutes, leaving her confused and wondering what she'd done wrong.

Dean went into the room he shared with Sam, and found him curled in a tight ball on his bed, completely under the covers. When Dean tugged the blankets free, he saw the sheet beneath Sam's face was stained dark, a huge patch saturated with tears.

Dean wrapped himself around Sam and held him close. Sam tried to throw him off, but Dean held him gently but firmly, murmuring, "I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't, I swear…"

Sam kicked at Dean hard, swore at him, said, "Don't call me that, you don't get to call me that ever again, not ever…"

Dean let Sam kick, let him swear, but wouldn't let the last part go. "Yeah I do, you're my Sammy, ok, you're my Sammy, always gonna be my Sammy..."

Sam spun in Dean's grasp and thumped his fist into Dean's chest hard, hard enough to drive some of the air out, his lanky body surprisingly strong. "I'm not your Sammy. You don't want me anymore." And with that, Sam broke down sobbing, only able to formulate the words, "don't want me," uttered with such anguish that Dean couldn't stay stoic no matter how hard he tried. He bent his head over Sam, stroking his hair, and started to cry, something that startled Sam so much he was jolted out of his sobbing fit.

"Thing is, Sammy, " Dean said in a wrecked voice. "I do." He held Sam close, rubbing his hand low on his brother's back. Sam stilled in his arms, gentled by his touch.

He nuzzled Dean's neck with his mouth.

Dean tipped his head back and let him.

They held each other, breathing as one.

And the words that were unspoken between them hung in the air like mist.


End file.
